Page 26 of Breath From the Sea
Chapter Eight
As soon as she was aboard ship, shouting orders to her men to raise the anchor and ready the sails, Antónia felt as though a dense weight had settled in her belly. The clouds overhead, mirroring her moods, darkened, covering the sun and making the water choppy.
She didn’t look back atThe Lionheart. Didn’t speak of her time with Titus to Sweeney who looked ready to pounce on her and demand to know what the bloody hell she’d been thinking.
Hands on the helm, she steered them back toward home, her gaze on the horizon and then falling to the ring that darkened on her finger.
A trick of the hidden sun, perhaps. Or her imagination.
The once blood red stone slowly blackened, until the following day when they reached the shores of the western coast of Ireland, the stone resembled onyx. No trace left of the once beautiful red she’d admired aboard Titus’ ship.
Her crew worked to close down the ship for their disembarkment, those who’d remain aboard for duty she’d given permission to host a few guests, as long as her vessel was in one piece come morning, for she planned to go on a raid. Needed the excitement of adventure to dull the irritating ache thudding in her chest.
Antónia climbed down the rope ladder to the waiting rowboat below, still having barely spoken other than to bark orders at her men.
Why was she so melancholy? She refused to put any credence to the fact that she felt the slight twinge of misery. That she actually might miss the bloody fool. She barely knew him!
And yet…
Nay. Nay. Nay. She did not miss him. Could not miss him.
She stared down at the blackness of the ring on her finger. Well, she might have wanted the antique for herself, for very good reasons, but now she knew those reasons were mute. She’d simply take it off and hand it over to Granuaille and be done with the whole business. Love was a fantasy, a thing that so many chased, like sailors chasing nymphs.
If she continued to search for it, one day she’d go mad.
’Twas best to be rid of it, and soon.
“Row.” She ordered and her men nodded, without comment, though their eyes said enough.
At the shore, the men jumped into the shallow waters and pulled her up onto the beach. She climbed out and stomped up the stone stairs and followed the path to the castle gate.
Granuaille stood on the ramparts gazing down at her, her silver hair flying, hands on her hips. She captained her fortress as well as she captained her ship. Antónia couldn’t help a smile, though it left her feeling hollow.
She raised a hand to her grandmother, then ducked beneath the gates. Granuaille would expect her to come up to the battlements, and so she did, greeting her as they both gazed out over the landscape.
“Did the queen like her gift?” Granuaille asked.
“Immensely. She laughed and was reassured of your alliance.”
Antónia brushed the hair away from her face that blew just as wildly as her grandmother’s. But upon bringing her hand down to the stone, her limb was seized by Granuaille’s bony, but strong, grasp.
Granuaille’s gaze was riveted on the ring. “What’s this?”
“Ah, aye,” Antónia said, as though she’d forgotten all about the ring. It had swelled on her finger with Titus, but the sea seemed to have done her some good, and she slipped it off, setting it on the stone. “The Lucius Ring. I found it for ye.”
“Where did ye find it?”
“Someone had given it to the queen. I followed one of her captains who was charged with taking it to France. And, well, I did what I do best.”
“But it is black.”
“Aye.”
“Do ye remember the story behind the ring?”
Antónia shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. Not wanting to remember.
“My dear, love turns the stone crimson and heartache turns it black.”
